Jerome helped carry Carl’s stretcher to the ambulance, and then he climbed in after them. Carl tried to push him away, though. “You should stay with Terry and Regina. They need you to protect…”
Jerome nodded no. “They’re going to ride behind us in the police car. Besides, there’s nothing to protect them from anymore, Pop. And you should know by now that Terry and Regina can take care of themselves.”
Just before Jerome shut the ambulance door, Regina leaned in and Carl looked up at her, tears in his eyes. Terry appeared next to him and patted his father’s shoulder. “It’s over, Pop. It’s okay.”
“But he’s gone,” said Carl. “Warren’s gone…. It was my fault… I should have…”
“It’s not your fault,” Terry told him. “Warren couldn’t stay. He knew that a long time ago. I think he stuck around only because he was waiting for this day.”
Carl clutched Terry’s arm and squeezed and then wiped his damp eyes.
Regina knelt close enough so that only her family could hear her. “Amara told me,” she said softly, “about our people—the Mkembro and the Merlante.” Carl marveled at the sound of his daughter’s voice, the maturity of it, the richness of her North Carolina accent giving it the timbre of experience. “There are words that our people sang at all of our ceremonies—in moments of celebration and tragedy: Dji mi sarro ti kee la ti na-arro.”
“What does it mean?” asked Carl.
“In unity,” she said, “we shall find strength.”
Epilogue
Harry wanted to believe what his master had told him. He needed to believe that Captain Van Owen was a good man—that he wouldn’t hurt the new girl. But why, Harry wondered, would Captain Van Owen make him tie up Amara and leave her alone in the cabin?
“Well,” Captain Van Owen said to her as he entered, “I trust you find your new home to your liking.”
Harry couldn’t allow himself to hear more. He quickened his pace back to his own cabin. He lifted the broom and swept at the floorboards, trying to drown out Van Owen’s voice. Swoosh, swoosh, went the broom. Then the word "witch" broke through the din, causing Harry to pause for a moment, confused. Until he began to sweep even more vigorously, more loudly, until the master’s words were faint against the backdrop chirps of the crickets and cicadas that inhabited the tobacco fields.
Finally, when the words seemed to have subsided, Harry stopped his sweeping motion for a moment, only to give way again to Van Owen’s voice.
“…Now let’s us see what I got from you,” he barked at the girl. “Let me see inside that filthy, primitive mind, Amara!”
Harry looked at the broom in his hand, wanting to rush to the girl’s aid, but then a brilliant light flashed outside, filling the cabin and the tobacco field. The girl screamed.
Harry’s head spun, and he watched the blue aura fade soundlessly to the north. He dropped the broom and strode from his cabin, unsure where he was going—to help the girl or to investigate the blue light? Only a few steps from the cabin, he heard the moaning. A man’s voice behind Harry’s own cabin. He ran toward it.
There on the ground was a Black man. He wore a tattered jacket and blue dungarees. He was young, perhaps in his twenties, barely more than a boy. Across his forehead and matted hair was an odd hat with a broad bill. The white lettering almost glowed in the moonlight.
As Harry neared the figure, he knew one thing for certain: this was not one of Van Owen’s slaves. Harry had heard there were free Black men somewhere in America. He had never seen one, but he wondered if this was how they dressed.
Then he saw the blood. There were bullet holes across the back of the boy’s jacket, red streaks extending from each. Blood dripped from the boy’s mouth as well, but he was still breathing.
Harry looked around. He couldn’t hear Van Owen or the girl. Whatever was happening in that cabin, it would have to wait. This boy was dying.
Harry knelt and placed his hands under the boy’s shoulders and started dragging him, into the grass, along the edge of the tobacco fields, down to the old toolshed that only Harry used these days.
As he pushed the door open and lowered the boy onto the splintery floor, Harry finally asked, “What’s your name?”
The boy’s voice was faint, weak. “Warren,” he said. “Warren Kelly.”
AcknowledgementS
When Shirley Ariker read an early draft of this novel, she told me that I hadn't yet lived enough with the characters. She was right. I've now spent so many years with them that they've grown weary of me and are eager to live on their own on these pages. Thank you, Shirley, for your wisdom, guidance, and support. Thank you also to Karen Sylander, who gave me confidence, to Thelma Mariano, who gave me the insight to rework the structure, and to Tom Adelman, who gave me the courage to spend hours on each sentence.
This is a work of historical fantasy, so I had some leeway to play with the facts. Even so, I did considerable research to ensure that I knew the facts and that I did not stray irrevocably far from them. To that end, I must thank the late Dr. Arthur Clark Everling, who provided sources to help me understand the Middle Passage, the people who justified the ownership of human beings, and the mindsets that drove both of them.
About The Author
R. B. Woodstone
R.B. is a writer, teacher, and musician who lives in Brooklyn, New York, with a spouse, a child, and two amusing animals. R.B. is currently working on several novels including Time in Chains, the first sequel to this book.
Books In This Series
CHAINS OF TIME
TIME IN CHAINS (arriving in 2021)
TIME UNCHAINED (arriving in 2022)
Chains of Time Page 29